Don't You Dare
by Fozzeh1015
Summary: Sherlock's worst nightmare has come true. His best friend is no longer at his side. John gets wounded in a confrontation with a suspect and is placed in a medically induced coma. Sherlock struggles to cope. Takes place around end of Season 1 and beginning of Season 2. Possible connection to Reichenbach Fall in future chapters. Rated T for very slight swearing
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1  
John's POV  
John Watson watched as his best friend sprinted off after a suspected murderer. He swore under his breath as he paced the sidewalk. That was just like Sherlock. Not one word, nothing, just suddenly gone. There was no use in calling after him, either. Once Sherlock Holmes was committed to something, there was no stopping him. As much as John wanted to do the sensible thing, to phone Lestrade and let the police take care of it, the soldier within him urged him into pursuit. He sighed, exasperated, and jogged off.

John knew there was no way he could catch up to them now, he was far too slow for that, but he could definitely help Sherlock corner the man. He turned off to an alleyway and began to sprint, weaving around buildings in the direction the murderer had gone. It was late, nearing 1 am, and London was, for the most part, asleep. The alleys were dark, creepily so, with only the moon and the rare streetlight to illuminate his path. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the brick walls bordering the alley as he ran to Sherlock's aid. He stopped when he reached an intersection and listened carefully for evidence of Sherlock's whereabouts. It was painfully quiet, only the quiet hum of cars on a distant street could be heard. He panted, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly, a gunshot echoed off to his left. Immediately John's heart was in his throat and he could only think of reaching Sherlock.

Almost involuntarily, John sprung into action, sprinting in the direction of the gunshot. "Oh god," he thought, as his legs carried him faster than they ever had, "Please. Please don't let him be dead." Heart thundering, thoughts inundated his head. The idea of living on without Sherlock was unperceivable. The seconds slowly ticked by as he ran. His eyes flashed around, hoping for some sign of a person, but there was nothing. He ventured on, determined, silently praying for his friend's safety. The suspense was killing him. He was sure he'd go into cardiac arrest if he didn't find Sherlock soon. Finally, he heard distant voices, and tore off towards them. He rounded the corner to an open area, and there he stood. Sherlock. His best friend in the world. And he wasn't hurt! The taller man was standing in front of the suspect, cockily deducing everything there was about the murderer and the crime, coat flapping gently in the breeze. Relief flooded John, and his heartbeat immediately returned to its normal rhythm.

The second John came into view, Sherlock's eyes flew to him. A look of wide-eyed panic spread across Sherlock's face as the murderer turned to face John. John's eyes flashed from his friend to the gun the murderer was pointing directly at him. As if in slow motion, he watched as the gunman's finger slid to the trigger and squeezed. He watched as the gun recoiled and the bullet began to fly. He gasped. He froze. War flashbacks flooded his mind. All the times he'd been shot at, all the times he'd been sure he was a dead man. But this time he was sure. Absolutely sure. He would never live to see another day.

Then the bullet hit. It tore into his chest and through his lung. John was sure he'd never felt such pain in his life. Being shot in Afghanistan was nothing compared to this. He screamed as the blinding pain overwhelmed him, and fell to the ground in a crumpled, broken heap.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
Sherlock's POV

Sherlock was rather proud of himself. Yet again he'd managed to confront a suspect and accurately deduce all he could about him. He smirked in spite of himself as the murderer gave a futile attempt to outsmart Sherlock. He continued with his deductions, this time attempting to crush every hope the murderer had of beating Sherlock. "If only John were here." Sherlock thought. "He could write about this in his blog. I might actually read that." Then Sherlock's wish came true. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John round the corner. He watched as the corners of John's mouth rose into an involuntary smile. Panic struck Sherlock. He cursed himself for looking at John, as he had now alerted the gunman to John's presence. The suspect whipped around to look at John. Sherlock's heart stopped. "No," he thought, "not John. Anyone but John. No no no. No." It echoed through his head like a mantra. He damned himself for not having a gun, or he could shoot the criminal right then and there. But he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. All he could do was watch.

Sherlock's heart felt as if it was about to break. He watched John's face transform from a relieved smile to sudden realization to shock to fear. The shot rang out. Sherlock winced at the sound, and watched as the bullet struck John in the chest. He hurtled past the shooter, no longer caring about his own safety. A look of agony crossed John's face, and his knees began to shake. The shooter saw his opportunity, shooting a poorly aimed bullet in Sherlock's direction, which missed him, and ran off.

John collapsed onto the ground in a pile. Sherlock flew to his side as quickly as he could. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Sherlock reached John. Kneeling beside him, he tried to comfort the older man, gently whispering calming words to him, but the pain won. John screamed and writhed, his hands clenched into fists, fingernails cutting his palms, as he thrashed on the ground. John's breathes were ragged and gasping, he sounded like he couldn't breath pulled the scarf from around his own neck and firmly applied pressure to John's chest. John howled in pain at the touch and thrashed harder, but Sherlock fought to keep him still. When blood had managed to completely soak the scarf and his hands in only a few minutes, Sherlock was afraid. Really truly afraid. He might lose John. His only friend in the world, and it was all his fault. The distant wail of sirens had a bit of a calming effect on him, but that ended when John suddenly stopped writhing.

John's eyes were beginning to roll back into his head and he was growing still. "JOHN!" Sherlock cried. "JOHN DON'T YOU DIE ON ME! DON'T YOU DARE DIE." He began trying to wake John, resorting to CPR when that didn't work. He paused, checked, and confirmed his dreaded suspicion. John wasn't breathing. And he had no pulse. Sherlock's heart fell. Frantically, he fought to save his best friend's life. "Wake up!" he growled, "stay with me, John!" His chest began to heave with the effort of his CPR administrations. He heard the sirens growing near, and was glad to have help coming.

Suddenly John's eyelids began to flutter open. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and smiled in spite of the situation. John's eyes tried to find Sherlock's. Just looking at John broke Sherlock's heart. He was so pale, so weak, so broken. Their eyes locked for a second. The meaning that flowed through that stare overwhelmed Sherlock. He could sense the pain John was in, the fear John felt, the care and concern John had for Sherlock. Then suddenly it was gone, replaced by a blank stare. He scanned John's face for a sign of life. There was none.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
The paramedics, summoned by the sound of gunshot, whisked John away before Sherlock could fully react. Sherlock made an attempt to crawl into the ambulance with John, but the paramedics would not let him. They were, however, more concerned with resuscitating John. They sped off, sirens blaring, leaving Sherlock, standing, alone in more ways than one. The police, of course, wanted to question him about the shooter, but Sherlock wanted no part in that. Police were rubbish, as far as he was concerned. The magnetic pull of the hospital, of John, was too much for him. He quickly listed off every detail and deduction he had on the gunman, pausing only to make sure they had what they wanted and would leave him alone. He made no further comments, and instead strode off, bloody scarf in hand.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to find a populated street and locate a taxi. He flung the door open and slid in, rattling off the address of St. Bart's. He fastened his seatbelt and turned his attention to looking out the window. He immediately noticed that car had not yet moved. His eyes flashed up to the rear-view mirror, only to see the wide, frightened eyes of the cabbie. "What?" he questioned. The cabbie's eyes shifted down to Sherlock's coat, which was blood stained, and back up to Sherlock's annoyed gaze. "Ah." Sherlock said "I see why you're afraid. I also understand that you are of below average intelligence, as I have just given you the address of a hospital, which not only explains my blood stained clothing, but also gives you plenty for reason to actually drive there. Because if I find out that John Watson died within the time I am in your company, I will have you shipped off to some small, uninhabited island filled with poisonous creatures and no way of getting home, and it will be your blood on this jacket. Have I made my thoughts clear?" The cabbie nodded quickly. "Then I suggest you get moving!" Sherlock barked, since the stunned cabbie had not yet shown any indication that he was in fact going to drive anywhere. The car sped into the night, taking Sherlock to his best and only friend. But no matter how fast the car drove, Sherlock was still left alone with his thoughts.

Despite Sherlock's propensity to think solely with his mind, looking at only the facts and statistics, he couldn't help but feel. The cab ride itself only took about 6 minutes, but that was plenty of time for the genius to analyze every aspect of the incident. And feel guilty about all of it. "I should have told him to go to Baker Street" he murmured to himself in the back of the car. "I should have called Lestrade and had the man arrested, but no, I had to get dramatic. I should have disarmed the man. I should have... I should have..." And for once, Sherlock Holmes began to weep. "And now John could be dead." He spoke, voice breaking. "Hell, John was dead, last I saw him." Sherlock cursed himself, wishing he could find a way to appropriately punish himself. But there was no time for that. John needed him, and needed him now.

The cab slowed in front of St. Bart's, and Sherlock was out of the car before it could stop, tossing a bit of money at the driver and wiping the tears from his cheeks. He entered the front doors, and suddenly, his chest tightened. His confidence was draining, and he couldn't help but think that somewhere within these walls, John Watson was currently fighting for his life. And losing. He hurriedly asked the lady at the front desk, who was far more concerned about the source of the blood on his jacket, where John was. She checked the computers, which had no record of him yet, as he'd only just arrived, and called around until she located him. "He's in the Trauma Center, Sir, we can't take you to him until he's stable." she told him in a kind voice.

Sherlock's mind began to race. "John isn't stable." Sherlock thought. "At least he isn't dead, that's an improvement. But the Trauma Center. He's still dying." He caught the woman's gaze and stared at her with pleading eyes.  
"Please," he begged "let me see him."  
She looked back sympathetically. "I'm so sorry, Sir. Please take a seat in the waiting room. We'll get you as soon as there is any change. Promise. "  
A look of defeat and heartbreak crossed Sherlock's face as he turned on his heel and stalked off to an open chair. While the sociopath inside of him told him to cause a scene and fight his way to John, he knew that would only take help away from the man. He smirked. The old Sherlock would be making a spectacle of himself, or deducing a way to sneak back to the Trauma Center. The Sherlock before John Watson. There wasn't a doubt in Sherlock's mind that John had changed him for the better. Happy to find a somewhat consoling notion, he allowed himself to linger on the thought. Then his breath hitched. What would happen to Sherlock if John died? The thought caused him physical pain.

A world without John was a world Sherlock didn't want to live in. No one to be there in the morning, making the tea, skimming the papers. No one to talk to when he was working through a crime. No one to run interference on Mycroft for him. No one to care for him when he sustained some sort of injury whilst on a case. No one to provide an ordinary person's perspective on things, something that was surprisingly useful, Sherlock decided. No one to force him to eat, even though Sherlock insisted it slowed him down. No one to laugh with. No one to talk to. No one to get the milk. No one to... He snapped back into reality as his thoughts were interrupted by the kind woman from the desk, calling for him. There had been a change. Sherlock lept from his chair and followed the woman through the double doors.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
They met a young doctor in the hallway. "He's stable, somewhat." the man said. "But he's still unconscious. We don't know when he'll wake up. He's lost a lot of blood, so it might take several hours. Days even. We reinflated his collapsed lung and removed the bullet. It did caused quite a bit of trouble, too. One of his ribs splintered pretty badly, caused a fair amount of tissue damage. He's still in critical condition, he could turn either way. But I can't see why he wouldn't recover." the doctor smiled softly. Sherlock was flooded with joy. John was alive! He no longer comprehended the words the doctor was speaking to him, he was far too happy to think logically. They led Sherlock to a room with a bed, but the person in the bed was almost unrecognizable.  
There lay John Watson, tubes run down his throat, breathing only thanks to a machine. His skin was a sickly pale color, his body looked frail and breakable, and his face looked gaunt and sunken. Bandages wrapped his chest. Sherlock lost all joy he had previously acquired. This wasn't his best friend, this was a sick, corpse-like version of his best friend. Sherlock numbly plopped into a chair beside John's bed. How could the doctor suggest John would survive? He looked half dead already! Happiness drained, Sherlock folded his legs underneath him and prepared to wait and hope for John to wake up.  
"What is wrong with me?" thought Sherlock, angrily. "I never have FEELINGS." Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't see any rational reason why he would react the way he had. "A hormonal imbalance perhaps?" He thought. "No, I would have experienced changes before this. Ah! An adrenaline rush!" He decided. But then, no, he haven't had any of the other symptoms. "Maybe a change in my neurotransmitter levels? Unlikely." Sherlock racked his brain for any logical reason why he was feeling as he was. Every other high-stress instance like this, Sherlock's reaction didn't vary. He always stayed calm, cool, collected. He sighed, exasperated. Then it occurred to him. The only thing that could make Sherlock succumb to his emotions. John.  
John was the only difference here. John was the only person that could make Sherlock change. Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't deny the emotional attachment he had forged with John. The man was such a major part of his life. Sherlock might even dare say that John Watson was the one person Sherlock cared about most. He couldn't fathom a life without his best friend. He began to drum his fingers against the arm of his chair in an attempt to distract himself. It didn't work. Sherlock spent the rest of the night fretting, timing his finger taps to John's labored, machine regulated breathing.


	5. Chapter 5

John's memories were scattered and blurry. He could remember Sherlock yelling at him to stay alive. For whatever reason, that memory was quite clear. He could recall the panicked, concerned, fearful look in Sherlock's eyes. He could recall the cold, hard, damp ground and how uncomfortable it had been. He could recall feeling as though he wanted to give up and let sleep take him, not that Sherlock would have any part in that. But over all, he could recall the blinding, overwhelming pain he had been in. A pain that made him writhe and thrash. That memory was definitely a solid one. However, everything else was warped and blurred. He could faintly remember when they had revived him in the ambulance. His head had lolled to the side and his eyes had opened slightly. He'd been disappointed that Sherlock wasn't there. That memory faded to black since he had passed out again at that point. The next memory was when he was laying on the table in the trauma center. He'd watched the doctors and nurses work on him. He'd squinted at the bright lights they had trained on him. But mostly he marveled at the change in perspective.  
In Afghanistan, John had treated millions of gunshot wounds, it seemed. Some men only winced slightly, others screamed so hard they passed out. John had always figured that those with extreme reactions were mostly afraid. But this had changed his mind. John hadn't been afraid. The very second he was shot, he was sure he'd die. He wasn't concerned about surviving, or what would happen to him. He was just trying to ride out the pain until he became unconscious. Being shot the first time was indeed painful and traumatic, but his life was never truly endangered. Now, as he fought to survive on this table, surrounded by fellow doctors, he was in agony. He was certain his lung had collapsed, so he knew that a great deal of his pain was from that alone. But even so, he now fully comprehended the perspective of all of his past patients. The rest of what happened was all hazy and unclear.  
For the first time since he had been under anesthesia, he began to wake up. He opened his eyes slightly, afraid of being inundated with bright light. However, all he could see was darkness, and all he could hear was deep breathing. Confused, he sat up slightly, only to feel a sharp stabbing pain in his chest. His breath caught, his eyes squeezed shut, and he braced his back against the bed, praying for the pain to pass. When it finally did, he reopened his eyes and began to familiarize himself with his environment. To his left were windows, with soft streetlight illuminating the room slightly. There was a wide range of medical equipment too. A heart monitor, a respirator, an intravenous pump, among other things. His eyes shifted to the clock on the wall ahead of him. It read 2:54. A.m., he assumed, since it was dark and quiet. Then, slowly, he turned to the source of the breathing. There, in the corner, curled up in a chair (seemingly uncomfortably), slept Sherlock.  
Sherlock's hair was tousled into a ratty mess, he looked unshaven, and as far as. John could tell, he hadn't changed his clothes since the shooting. He was turned sideways in the chair. His long legs were folded up against one arm rest, and his back leaned against the other. He looked incredibly cramped and awkward, yet he somehow managed to sleep soundly. John smiled weakly at the slumbering Sherlock. He was touched that his best friend had chosen to stay at his bedside, instead of wrapping up their case. From Sherlock, something like that meant a lot.  
John estimated he'd been unconscious about a day. Maybe two, since it had been about this time when he'd been shot, yet Sherlock looked as though he hadn't been home in a little while. Leaning back, John tried to assess his injuries. There were bandages wrapped around his wound. His chest throbbed and his head ached. He went to call a nurse for some morphine, but a second glance at the sleeping, peaceful Sherlock changed his mind. Not wanting to disturb his friend, he placed the call button back at his side. It was early in the morning anyway, he might as well just go back to sleep. He carefully shifted his body to a more comfortable position and dozed off again.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
John woke again at 6, this time in rather unbearable pain. Sherlock still slept, but this time John could not suffer through. He began to reach for the call button, when his wound caused him agony. He yelped out involuntarily, pressing himself into a still position, trying to get the pain to pass. This sudden noise, however, roused Sherlock from his slumber. His head whipped to look at John, whose eyes were pressed shut, and whose face was twisted into a grimace. Sherlock leapt up from his chair and ran to be next to John.  
"What do you need?" He asked worriedly.  
"M...mor...morphine." John answered between short, shaky breaths.

Sherlock bolted from the room, searching for a nurse. By the time he returned, John had managed to calm himself down, but even so, several nurses and a doctor flooded in, giving him medication and asking him how he felt. The doctor explained to him what happened - he'd been shot, his lung had deflated, his rib splintered badly. He'd even been considered dead twice, yet he pulled through.  
"How long has it been?" He asked them, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "Since I was shot?"

"11 days." Sherlock's deep voice quietly murmured from his chair.

John was shocked. How could he have been unconscious that long? The nurses and doctor finished examining him, administering drugs and documenting his vital signs. John waited patiently for them to wrap up. Half an hour later, they finally did, vacating the room, leaving John with his best friend.

John had so much to ask, so much to say, but the words wouldn't come. They sat in silence, not looking at each other, not acknowledging each other's presence. Finally, John turned to face Sherlock, took the leap, and broke the silence.

"Hi."  
It wasn't his best material, but it'd have to do for the time being.  
Sherlock chuckled. "Hello."  
They fell back into brief quietness.  
"So, uh, have you been home?" John questioned. Sherlock, upon closer examination, looked as though he'd not moved from the chair in days.  
Sherlock stretched. "Nope."  
"Have you changed clothes?"  
"Nope."  
"Have you eaten?"  
"Nope."  
"Have you even moved?" John asked, his voice rising in concern.  
Sherlock stared at him, faint amusement crossing his face. "Nope."  
"Oh." John said, stunned. He pressed himself back against the mattress, and allowed himself to absorb this information.  
"And why not?" He quizzed further, a tone of irritation influencing his voice.  
"You might have needed me." Sherlock answered plainly.

John could feel his heart swell. His emotions got the better of him and a few silent tears ran down his cheek. Never before in his life had he thought he'd have a real, true, loyal best friend. Especially not in a sociopath. But now he had. A man willing to postpone an important criminal in investigation just to take care of him. A man who allowed a key suspect to simply walk off and instead saved him. A man willing to sit in the same chair for nearly two weeks without moving solely because he thought that the unconscious John might need him. The thought touched John. He hoped that someday, many years in the future, when he was married and had kids, maybe even grandkids, that he and Sherlock would still be close. Despite Sherlock's propensity to be a complete and utter tool most of the time, John had grown to love and care for the man. Without Sherlock, the emotional effect the war had on John would have swallowed him up. It was Sherlock that helped John find his niche post-war. It was Sherlock that made John realize that the only thing he needed was a little action and adventure in his life. "Not like that didn't end badly." He thought sarcastically.

He looked sideways at Sherlock, whose face looked unnaturally indifferent. John decided it best not to question, and instead busied himself with staring at the ceiling. They were silent and unmoving for hours, until John was whisked away for tests and therapy and examinations. Sherlock was confident that John was okay now, and allowed himself to finally move from his chair.


End file.
